Hunting Legends
by Kievan09
Summary: Ezreal needs a guide to Icathia. Malzahar is willing to oblige, but not without his own price. Malzahar/Ezreal


Ezreal is hunting legends again. Usually Malzahar doesn't care: why should he concern himself with Runeterra's materialist things when the Void's takeover is so soon upon them? But this time Ezreal's been chasing after Icathia, artifacts forged by the Void itself, and Malzahar can't continue to ignore that.

He figures the boy will come searching him out eventually - either him or Kassadin, his weak-willed... Malzahar hesitates to call him a compatriot, but they are not enemies, either. Kassadin might not know it, might be fighting it, but he is still a vassal of the Void, and he too will help bring Runeterra's destruction sooner or later. Malzahar knows that Kassadin has no intention of returning to Icathia. This leaves the boy with few choices, unless he wants to wander the Shurima Desert himself. Icathia can't be found by conventional means; you have to know it's there.

Within the week, Malzahar's patience pays off. Ezreal is waiting for him in the Institute of War after his recent match. The boy is leaning, back against the wall, fiddling with the corners of a musty tome. He looks up when Malzahar approaches, hesitates for a second, looks like he suddenly has decided against this, but goes through with it anyhow.

"Malzahar," Ezreal says in greeting.

Malzahar tilts his head forward, blinks at him, asks him why he's here even though he already knows.

"I need a guide to Icathia."

"Kassadin," Malzahar responds. There's a slight grin in his voice. He wants to know just how much Ezreal wants to find his mythical city of the Void.

"He won't. I tried. He says -" Ezreal cuts off, green eyes alert, as he turns to face his left. Moments later, Malzahar hears it too, heavy footsteps and the clinks of armor. Demacia's royal Prince walks down the hall next to his Knight General, the both of them discussing their latest victory. Ezreal stands up straight and gives a slight bow to the Prince as he passes. Jarvan nods in acknowledgement, gives a quizzical look to Malzahar, but says nothing. It isn't until they turn the corner, far out of earshot, that Ezreal turns back.

"Maybe we should find a more private place to talk about this," He says, voice quiet. It's true, Malzahar agrees, the halls of the Institute of War are hardly appropriate for serious conversation, and he knows that neither of them wants to be overheard.

They find a small meeting room, one door, a table, a couple of chairs. A single window in the wall looking over a rocky precipace. Ezreal paces back and forth across the room, doing his best to explain his intentions. His voice is steadier than he looks, and Malzahar is hardly listening to the boy's words. Instead, he's drinking in his nervousness and anxiety, relishes in the fact that he knows what exactly Ezreal is so scared of: not the Void, but its prophet. Ezreal has conquered dangerous places before. People, not so much, and it is this undeniable, extraordinary, nearly tangible fear that has Malzahar growing hard. He's sitting down across from where the boy is walking, and his expression betrays none of his desire.

"So what do you say?" Ezreal finishes up, leaning over the table, leaning on his palms. "You get me to Icathia, make sure I get out okay, and you'll get first dibs to twenty-five percent of what I've excavated."

It's a tempting offer, his choice of the artifacts of the Void. But surely Ezreal knows that, if he'd truly wanted something, he would've gotten it himself without a blond explorer's help. Anyhow, he doesn't want that right now. He wants to draw more of that delicious distress out of Ezreal's body. He wants the boy beneath him, shaking, muffling his own cries of fear and pain. Ezreal is too proud to scream. It's a good quality, but more than anything in the world right now, Malzahar wants to shatter that pride.

"I have a different proposition for you," he says. "One where you keep whatever you find." Ezreal looks suspicious and draws back, but not quickly enough; Malzahar manages to grab onto his shirt and pull him onto the table, grinning as Ezreal's thighs slam against the table's edge. The boy yelps in surprise, then winces his pain. He falls face-first onto the tabletop and tries to scramble up, but Malzahar has already climbed onto the table himself and pinned him from above, one knee between Ezreal's shoulderblades. He can feel the blond's pulse, hammering like a cornered jackrabbit's.

"If," Ezreal's voice comes strained. He takes a deep breath and tries again. "If I let you do this, you'll take me to Icathia." It's not a question, it's a demand. And, Malzahar believes, he's not exactly in a position to demand anything. But he has seen what Ezreal is capable of, and he'd rather not let the boy slip through his grasp. So he says yes and feels a shudder run through the skinny form.

"Let me up," Ezreal says, voice quiet. "I'd uh, I'd rather you not tear these clothes."

Malzahar complies. he's not worried about Ezreal running away, not with the promise of Icathia on the horizon. Ezreal undresses slowly, methodically sets his jacket and shirt aside, his pants with its many belts folded on top. His boots and socks go in the corner, but he hesitates at his boxers, face turning a bright red even as he reaches for them.

At this point, though, Malzahar's patience has worn out. He slides off the table and to where Ezreal has paused, nearly throws the boy into the table's edge. There's a faint line of purple across Ezreal's thighs already. It just makes Malzahar harder, and he undos his own belt as he bends Ezreal over the table.

"My - My bag," Ezreal says, "Please." There's a satchel lying against the back wall, and a small bottle of moisturizer within underneath a canteen of water and some dry rations. He's packed sparsely, but well for the desert; it's a light load, easy to move with.

By the time Malzahar turns back around, Ezreal is watching him, cheek against the table. He picks himself up as he notices Malzahar returning, but the prophet puts a hand on his neck and forces him back down. Ezreal stretches his arms above his head, almost as if he's reaching for the other side, but instead crosses his arms over his eyes and buries his face in the crook of his elbow.

He shivers when Malzahar touches him, a gloved finger running down his spine and along the edge of his waistband. His shoulders tense when he feels his boxers sliding to his ankles, but he makes no other noise except for the small hitch in his breath when Malzahar slides a slicked finger into him. Ezreal arches his back when a second finger is added. He's biting his lip, eyes squinted, forehead pressed against his arms.

Malzahar doesn't know if this is the boy's first time. To be frank, he doesn't care. He doesn't want the boy's virginity or purity or whatever value these mortals place on sexual inexperience; he wants sex so rough the both of them have bruises. Wants to fuck him against the table so hard the boy can hardly stand. Draw from those bitten lips the kinds of noises Ezreal would be embarassed to hear played back to him. Dig his fingernails into Ezreal's ribs and see the bright red crescent marks left behind.

One step at a time though, no use getting ahead of himself. He lifts the boy's hips a bit higher (Ezreal takes a deep breath, holds it, waits for it) and pushes himself in with one motion. Malzahar shudders, can feel the scream building up in Ezreal's body but it never comes. Instead there's a quiet whine hidden in the big exhale of breath, and Ezreal bites his forearm to muffle the small squeaks of pain as Malzahar thrusts. His other hand scrabbles along the table at first, but as the pained sounds reluctantly turn to moans, he reaches under the table to stroke himself.

Briefly, Malzahar wonders if the boy is enjoying this. It's a pleasant surprise; he wasn't expecting Ezreal to, but it's not resented. Malzahar might not be a romantic, but the sex is usually better if both parties are enjoying it, and there's already plenty of evidence across Ezreal's body attesting to his claim. Malzahar smirks into his scarf and pulls out; Ezreal makes a small noise of confusion before he's flipped onto his back, legs spread, red fingernail marks clearly visible along his sides, his own erection displayed before Malzahar. Perhaps out of reflex, he attempts to cover himself; there's a clear bite mark and saliva ring above his left wrist; Malzahar grabs his arm before Ezreal can have any decency and runs a finger along the grooves that each tooth left.

"Malzahar," Ezreal mutters, looking away. "Come on..." Something that Malzahar didn't notice before: Ezreal's kept his goggles on. They're skewed on his head right now, and they're getting foggy. Ezreal is blushing from his ears down to his chest, but whether that's from embarrassment or pleasure, Malzahar can't tell.

"Look at me," Malzahar commands, one of the few things he's said this whole time. Ezreal's blush creeps downward more and grows darker. He won't, not until Malzahar grabs his chin and forces him to look - the second they lock eyes, Malzahar thrusts in again. Without his improvised gag, Ezreal's yelp is clear in the room. He covers his mouth with one hand, the other going back to his cock; Malzahar likes his attempt at self-control. Can't wait until Ezreal throws caution to the wind and calls out to whoever's near that he's getting fucked against a meeting table and how much he's liking it. For now, he's whimpering against his fingers, eyes squeezed shut as he jerks himself off.

There are bruises already forming around Ezreal's hips. Small purple spots in arrangements of five, one set on each side from how hard Malzahar was gripping him. Ezreal's foot slips off the table, but Malzahar catches his leg under his thigh, right above the knee, and shakes the scarf from his face to lick at that place. Ezreal's moans grow more desperate. He bucks into his own hand, and Malzahar can see his stomach tensing as he does. He shifts his own hips, hits a spot deep within the boy and Ezreal finally, finally breaks; hand flying from his mouth to grab onto Malzahar's shoulder, he lets out staccato moans punctuated by his own breath.

This is what Malzahar was waiting for, and he leans in towards Ezreal's throat, nibbles along the collarbone before biting down hard enough to not quite break skin - then again, and again. Eyes closed, Ezreal doesn't even seem to notice. His head is thrown back against the table as much as he can, volume unchecked. Malzahar wonders if there's anyone wandering outside of the door. He hopes that there is, wants a witness for the power he has over the boy right now. Knows that nobody will interrupt them, even if they're out there. He almost wants to take a picture. Ezreal bucking against the table, eyes shut and mouth open, goggles tilted and completely foggy, legs spread, Malzahar's cock deep inside of him as his hand pumps up and down his own erection.

Ezreal's fingers start to dig into Malzahar's shoulder, his body pressed tight against the table. Malzahar can sense the pressure building in both their lower stomachs. He thinks about slowing down - maybe even pulling out entirely - just to deny the boy his orgasm. But it seems that Ezreal will have none of that; the hand on his shoulder flies to the back of his neck, brings him down so the fabric of his shirt rubs against the blond's chest. Ezreal buries his face into Malzahar's neck, and when the scream finally comes it's muffled by the fabric of the prophet's scarf. But Malzahar is able to feel the sound against his jugular, absorbed into his bloodstream, traveling down into his abdomen where it coils in on itself and builds and builds and finally releases all at once and Malzahar throws his head back as he orgasms into Ezreal's shaking body and even though he can feel one of the Void's catastrophic vision prickling at the back of his mind all he sees is whiteness instead.

He blinks, and the whiteness disappears before him like smoke. He blinks again and instead there's Ezreal whimpering before him, cheek pressed against the table, a white, sticky mess all over his stomach and fingers. Some of it, Malzahar notices, has gotten on his own shirt. Little matter; he'll just wash it later. Ezreal winces as he pulls out. Starts to brush his fingers over the marks and bruises Malzahar has made and pauses at his collarbone, idly poking at the teeth marks left there.

"Look at me," Malzahar commands again. Ezreal won't. His embarrassment is palpible, and he tries to slide off of the table instead, still staring to the side. Malzahar lets him. Ezreal is shaky on his feet and leans mostly on the table as he limps over to his clothes. There's semen running down the inside of his thigh, and sweat rolling from his temples.

"Icathia," he says. His voice is hoarse.

Malzahar tells him to wash up first. When they leave for the desert, there will be little opportunity otherwise, and there's no point venturing out as a sticky mess. There's a bathroom across the hall with a small shower in it, and he will want to be prepared for the desert's harshness. Ezreal nods, gathers up his belongings, and checks the hall for people before he dashes (as well as he can) to the bathroom. A minute or two later, Malzahar can hear the sound of running water.

He smirks, redresses himself, and waits for the boy's return. For now, Malzahar closes his eyes and sits back in a chair to bask in his personal victory, and he can just barely still feel Ezreal's scent dancing on the tip of his tongue. 


End file.
